


the genius who hides in man's tormented soul

by veronamay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Mutual Masturbation, reading kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-29
Updated: 2009-12-29
Packaged: 2018-01-12 12:39:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1186298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veronamay/pseuds/veronamay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean reads.  Sam likes it.  A lot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the genius who hides in man's tormented soul

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd because I am impatient, so please point out any errors. No specific spoilers, but set somewhere around 5x05. This is slightly embarrassing, utterly self-indulgent reading!kink porn and I apologise profusely for inflicting it upon you. Um. Enjoy?

The first time Sam sees Dean with a book in his hand, he assumes it's research. They've been turning over every literary stone they can find in the hope of gleaning more information about what to expect from Lucifer, given Castiel isn't around all that much to fill them in. And also, Sam admits privately, because he's not all that willing to take whatever Castiel says on faith anymore.

Dean pitches in without comment, tracking down likely texts online and driving them half across the country to get them. The back seat of the Impala starts to resemble a bookstore bargain bin, full of discarded titles that have proven to be dead ends or too light on concrete information to be of any use. Their motel rooms are invaded by stacks of books on nightstands, tables, even in the bathrooms.

Then one morning Sam is coming out of the shower, rubbing a towel over his hair, and he trips on one of the books on the floor next to Dean's bed. He curses and hops around on one foot, his stubbed toes tingling with that peculiar nauseating sting, and sits on Dean's bed until it passes. Sam reaches down and picks up the heavy hardback book, curious about what title he all but broke his foot on.

_Anna Karenina_.

Sam stares for a moment, then blinks and rubs his eyes. When he looks again, the words are still there, gold-stamped on the spine of the novel, with a card from the last bar they went to serving as Dean's bookmark.

Sam puts the book carefully back down on the floor where he kicked it, and moves away to sit on his own bed on the other side of the room. His foot throbs dully, but he ignores it. When Dean returns a few minutes later with coffee and breakfast, Sam doesn't say a word.

A few days later, the Tolstoy joins the clutter in the back seat. Sam eyes his brother mistrustfully for a while, half expecting it to be some kind of prank, but shortly afterward they make a stop in Indiana and there's a new book on the floor by Dean's bed.

This time it's William Gibson, and Sam drops the book like it's on fire. He hadn't thought Dean knew what cyberpunk _was_.

He starts keeping a subtle watch for when Dean exchanges books in the middle of researching, switching over from ancient texts and biblical interpretations to _Neuromancer_ and _Vurt_ without so much as a twitch. The transition is so smooth Sam actually misses it the first couple of times; one minute Dean is frowning over a book as large as his head, and the next he's sprawled in a relaxed pose at the table or on the couch, still concentrating hard but without the habitual worry-line slashing vertically between his eyebrows. Sam watches from his peripheral vision, fascinated by the sight. Dean's always been willing to do research, if never exactly enthusiastic about it, but his apparent outright enjoyment of reading is something Sam never even suspected.

Now that he's on the lookout for it, Sam discovers that Dean reads _all the time_. When it's Dean's turn to get food, he notices the book Dean is currently reading is gone. When it's Sam's turn, he'll often come back to the room to find Dean sitting on the couch or his bed, laptop or TV spilling distinctly porn-like sounds, but at least half the time there's a book within reach of Dean's hand. Of the two of them, Sam is usually the early riser; it only takes a couple of weeks for him to realise this is because Dean stays up late reading after Sam is already asleep.

Dean goes through _The Scarlet Letter_ and _Pride and Prejudice_ and _The Naked Lunch_. Sam keeps absent track of which books Dean doesn't finish as well as those he does; copies of _Wuthering Heights_ and _Catch-22_ wind up in the trash can outside their room, shortly followed by _The Catcher In The Rye_. A couple of times while searching through the Impala's trunk for supplies, he comes across well-thumbed copies of _Huckleberry Finn_ and _Alice In Wonderland_ , but the Narnia books are apparently a complete failure in Dean's eyes.

Sam wants to say something, bring it into the open so Dean doesn't have to continue sneaking around like reading classic novels is a crime. He thinks about it as Dean plows through novels with voracious appetite, the titles becoming less recognisable as Dean begins to branch out, following his own interests. He has no idea why Dean hides what he's doing, but he doesn't quite know how to bring it up. Their relationship is still fragile, butterfly bandages strung thinly over the deep gouge healing between them, and Sam is reluctant to do anything that might tear that wound open again. But even if he doesn't say anything about it, he can't stop _thinking_ about it, because the very idea of Dean sprawled on his bed, knees up to balance the weight of Dickens spread across his thighs is ... really, really hot.

That image doesn't actually help the situation; there's been no sign of any interest in sex from Dean since well before Sam killed Lilith, so all it does is provide Sam with a whole new set of fantasies.

The day Sam finds Dean's copy of _The Vintner's Luck_ shoved under his bed, he can't stop himself from getting hard. He doesn't do anything about it; the fact that he's spying on Dean's reading habits is bad enough, let alone getting off on it. Sam grits his teeth and goes for a five-mile run instead, returning to the room exhausted but finally relaxed.

Then he spots the book on Dean's nightstand, facedown and spine turned away, and it takes a twenty-minute cold shower to calm him down again.

Dean switches to popular fiction for a while after that: Stephen King and Robert Ludlum and, briefly, Dan Brown. Sam stifles a laugh when he finds _The Da Vinci Code_ in the trash with its covers torn off and pages half-burned, as if Dean had tried to exorcise it. Anne Rice doesn't last more than a couple of days; J K Rowling, somewhat surprisingly, does, although Sam supposes it makes sense.

The books disappear as fast as Dean acquires them, very few remaining in secret hidey-holes in the Impala for Sam to find. He stops short of rummaging through Dean's duffel; they have a few hard and fast rules about privacy, and their bags being hands-off is one of them. Sam can tell by the way Dean's stuff starts to fill out every last corner of the olive-drab canvas that more and more books are making their home inside, and it drives him crazy not knowing what they might be. He wants to know what Dean likes, what he thinks about the books he reads. He wants Dean to read to him, wants that smoky whiskey-smooth voice murmuring the words of Chekhov and Fleming and Heinlein into Sam's ear.

They're in Omaha on a filler job, to find and dispatch a shapeshifter that's been grifting cash from senior citizens and then ganking them, and the lack of apocalypse-based research means Dean's been staying up later than usual to get his reading in, if the shadows under his eyes are anything to go by. Sam again considers the idea of confronting Dean, because the whole thing is getting ridiculous by now. Dean is far from stupid; he has to know Sam is aware of how much he reads. Pretending it isn't happening is a waste of time and energy they don't have to spare.

He spies the title of Dean's latest choice in passing while they're on their way out the door. It's a book he doesn't recognise, and he makes a note to Google it when they get to the library.

While Dean is occupied with the most recent hard copy newspapers, Sam commandeers a computer and accesses the town paper's online archive. In another tab, he Googles Dean's book, then switches tabs in a hurry when he sees Dean approaching from behind in the reflection of the monitor.

"Find anything?" Dean asks, hovering just out of sight behind him.

"Nothing yet," Sam says, clearing his throat. "How far back do you want to go?"

"About a month should do it. Maybe two. That should give us enough of a pattern to track this thing."

"Okay."

Sam nods, desperately hoping Dean hasn't noticed the background browser tab with his search results just sitting there. After a long moment Dean moves away, and Sam exhales heavily, feeling like he's just dodged a bullet. He quickly compiles a list of victims for the job, noting recurring events and similarities, working twice as fast as usual. When he's done, he casts a quick glance at Dean, who appears engrossed in the newspapers, and switches to the Google results tab.

Two minutes later Sam carefully closes the browser window, tucks his list into his pocket and heads to the men's room. When he comes back out, face and hands stinging from cold water, Dean is lounging against the wall near the exit, hips tilted in Sam's direction, hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans.

"You ready?" he says when Sam gets close. His eyes are opaque, giving nothing away, and his mouth is set in his customary half-smirk. "Time's wasting, Sammy."

"Yeah," Sam says, mouth dry. "Yeah, I'm ready. Let's go."

They don't speak on the way back to the motel. Sam can't think of anything to say and Dean seems content to let the silence stand, with only the low hum of the engine to fill it. By the time they get back Sam is almost twitching with nerves and Dean's proximity, and it takes real effort to affect normality as he gets out of the car and heads inside, collapsing onto his bed. Dean follows a few moments after, looming over him from Sam's supine position, and the room instantly feels too small.

"I'm going to shower," Sam says, standing up so fast he feels a little dizzy.

He doesn't hear Dean's reply, reaching the sanctuary of the bathroom in three strides and locking the door behind him. He turns on the shower automatically, then grips the edges of the sink and stares at himself in the mirror, his mind whirling.

Dean is reading _Maurice_ , by E M Forster. Sam hasn't read it, but the Wikipedia entry was very enlightening. So enlightening, Sam doesn't bother to turn on the hot water in the shower before he steps in.

Ten minutes later, shivering and gasping, he dries off and wraps a towel around his waist. Sam thinks he was maybe a little overenthusiastic with the cold water this time, but thankfully there are clean sweats in his gear. He gathers up his dirty clothes in one hand and throws open the bathroom door, intent only on getting clothed and warm.

Dean is lying on Sam's bed, propped up on Sam's pillows with his bare feet poking from the cuffs of his jeans, one knee raised. He has the book on his lap; as Sam stands there and stares, he calmly licks his finger and turns the page, not even looking up.

"It's your turn to get dinner," Dean says. "Chop chop."

Sam doesn't think about moving; he just does it, three strides to the end of the bed and then he's crawling up over Dean's legs, pushing the upraised knee to the side to make room for himself. Dean doesn't lift his eyes from the book, but he lets Sam shift him around until Sam is straddling Dean's hips, the backs of Dean's hands and the book cover resting against Sam's naked belly.

There's the slightest of smiles on Dean's face; the tiniest curl of lips, soft and wavering at the edges. His fingers shake minutely against Sam's skin.

Sam wraps his hands around Dean's wrists.

"Read to me," Sam says.

Dean looks up then, eyes wide and meeting Sam's with shock clear in their depths; after a moment, when Sam doesn't look away, the shock fades and a warmth kindles in its place that Sam has barely hoped to see again. Dean gives a small nod, clears his throat, and lowers his eyes back to the page.

_"'Alec, wake up.'_

_"An arm twitched._

_"'Time we talked plans.'_

_"He snuggled closer, more awake than he pretended, warm, sinewy, happy. Happiness overwhelmed Maurice too. He moved, felt the answering grip, and forgot what he wanted to say. Light drifted in upon them from the outside world where it was still raining. A strange hotel, a casual refuge protected them from their enemies a little longer._

_"'Time to get up, boy. It's morning.'_

_"'Git up then.'_

_"'How can I the way you hold me!'_

_"'Aren't yer a fidget, I'll learn you to fidget.' He wasn't deferential any more. The British Museum had cured that. This was 'oliday, London with Maurice, all troubles over, and he wanted to drowse and waste time, and tease and make love."_

Sam loosens his hold on Dean's wrists, running his hands down muscled forearms to the elbow and back. He plucks the book from Dean's unresisting grip and lays it aside, then tangles Dean's fingers with his own.

"I like the way he thinks," Sam says hoarsely, and Dean bites out a savage curse and hauls him in for a kiss.

Sam is expecting violence, but Dean kisses him slow and deep, drugging him with the luxury of it. Dean's mouth is velvet-soft, silky-wet, seducing him with languorous nibbles and bites until Sam is moaning more than breathing, wordlessly begging for more. He hovers over Dean on his knees, their hands firmly entwined, not touching anywhere else but for the rough scrape of denim over Sam's inner thighs. Dean raises his left hand, bringing Sam's with it, and tugs at the towel around Sam's waist; it falls away, leaving Sam naked and hard on his brother's lap, Dean's eyes glinting with appreciation.

"You been holding out on me, Sammy," he says, sliding their joined hands over Sam's cock, stroking slow. "Is it just Edwardian romance that revs your engines, or does Victorian work too? I could go get my copy of _Emma_ from the car--"

"Oh God, shut up," Sam moans, and leans in, tongue pushing deep into Dean's mouth as he tilts his hips into their hands. He breaks away for an instant to say, "It's you, you asshole, you and your fucking _reading_ , drives me fucking insane," and then he's kissing Dean's low chuckle right out of his mouth, sucking Dean's tongue like it's candy, and Dean is shaking his right hand free and pressing Sam's hips down, thrusting up hard against him while they stroke Sam's cock together. Sam uses his free hand to wrestle with Dean's belt, getting the zipper down and his cock out with a triumphant hiss. Dean wriggles the jeans down over his ass, then their two hands are on their cocks and they're stroking together, perfect timing, and Sam's other hand is in Dean's hair, holding him close while they kiss.

Dean's murmuring nonsense into his mouth, disjointed words that have no meaning, but the low rumble of his voice is enough to ratchet Sam's lust a little higher. He spreads his legs wider and shifts on Dean's lap, breaking the rhythm and pushing Dean's cock down under his balls to ride the crease of his ass. Dean lets out a choked, " _Fuck_ , Sam!" when Sam presses down and starts to rock, but his hand on Sam's cock never falters.

Sam's whole body jerks when Dean presses the tip of his thumb against the slit of his cock; Dean does it again and Sam's head falls back without his say-so, a low noise escaping him. Dean sits up straight, the cotton of his t-shirt clingy and rough on Sam's nipples, Dean's stubble soft-rough as he kisses Sam's neck. He can feel Dean's heart pounding against his own, the heat rising off him, and it's everything he's been missing for months. Sam looks down and meets Dean's gaze, hiding nothing, and Dean's eyes close as if he can't stand to look. Then his mouth is tipping up and Sam is there to meet it, hips circling faster over Dean's cock, Sam's own cock slipping easily through Dean's grip. It's building fast, the tingling already beginning in Sam's spine, and then Dean pulls away from the kiss and puts his mouth to Sam's ear.

_"'And now we shan't be parted no more, and that's finished.'"_

Sam's hips stutter when he comes; he arches his back, gripping Dean's shoulder for balance, letting the orgasm rip through him like a wave. It recedes slowly, little shudders wracking him as he comes down, his body still rocking mindlessly against Dean's cock. Dean is pushing up now, stronger, faster, both hands on Sam's hips to guide him. Sam looks down and sees the mess he's made of Dean's shirt; he touches his finger to a milky strand and lifts it to Dean's mouth, watching Dean's eyes roll up a little in his head when he sucks it in.

Dean's come is wet and warm between his thighs; Sam winces a little, but he doesn't really mind. He pulls Dean's t-shirt off him and uses it to clean up, tossing it into the communal laundry pile in the corner of the room. Dean pulls him down, pushing Sam's head into the crook of his neck, one arm slung low across his back. Sam stretches out his legs and relaxes into Dean's body, kissing the warm skin beneath his lips.

"So is this some deeply repressed kink of yours based on me reading to you when you were a kid?" Dean asks in a completely normal tone. "Because if it is, dude, that's pretty sick."

"Shut up," Sam mutters. "I like it when you read, okay? It's hot."

He expects Dean to say something stupid, like, 'Of course it's hot, it's me' or 'Apparently you like it a _lot_ ', but he doesn't.

"Okay," Dean says instead, and presses a kiss to Sam's temple. "I'm gonna be finished this one tomorrow; you wanna borrow it?"

"Yeah." Sam shifts and buries his face deeper against Dean's skin. "Thanks."

END

**Author's Note:**

> Title and all quoted material from _Maurice_ by E M Forster.


End file.
